Chrysalis
by Tsuki the Avenger
Summary: "Now that he can change at will, his whole life feels like the day of a full-moon—his whole body feels an urge for escape, to be alone in the woods... but maybe being alone isn't what's best anymore. Not when there's an Upir eating his way across the New York (post-series, multi-chapter Peter/Roman).
1. Chapter 1 - Alone

**Author's Note: **I know many people have been writing "what happened?" and fix-it fics _for Hemlock Grove_. I guess now it's my turn. However, my imagination found itself too big for a one-shot, so look forward to this being a series, somewhere between five and ten chapters. Essentially, this is my Season Two of _Hemlock Grove_, with full references and spoilers for Netflix's Season One. I am really looking forward to exploring Peter's Romani heritage, vampire lore, and what could possibly bring Peter and Roman back together after all the pain in HG. Series will eventually be heavily Peter/Roman and M-rated. I'm really looking forward to writing this craziness and I hope you have fun joining me on this journey. _Happy Travels, Tsuki_

…

*I do not own _Hemlock Grove_. All characters are the property of Brian McGreevy, Eli Roth, and Netflix. No infringement intended; just a bit of fun!*

…

**Chrysalis - A Hemlock Grove Story**

…

**Chapter One: Alone**

Her name is Anna and she is 22 years old. It's Thursday night and she can call in 'sick' on Friday, so she is taking advantage of 321 Club's tequila shot special. She is dressed in her favorite black dress with red pumps and matching red lipstick. She is planning on staying up late and dancing all night.

But then she turns and falls into the stare of two gorgeous blue eyes.

"Hello." The voice sounds like it's all around her, surrounding her, weaving its way inside her head. "You want to come home with me." It's a command, not a question. Her brain feels fuzzy. She is confused—isn't it only nine o'clock? Who leaves anywhere at nine 'clock? "Now."

Suddenly, all her concerns feel like they are being pushed away by an ocean wind. "Yes," she says. "Take me home with you."

The man smiles a satisfied smile, his lips full and red. "Of course. Right this way..."

Tomorrow morning, when she wakes up in the New York City penthouse of the infamous Roman Godfrey, she'll think herself incredibly lucky. When she brags to her friends about the loft's great view, about the fabulous wine, and how passionate the Godfrey heir was—seriously, the tabloids have it all wrong!—she will never admit, to herself or anyone else, that she doesn't remember a thing.

.

.

Peter sighs as he pulls another newsprint wrapped glass out of the worn cardboard box. Three moves in two years. He hadn't even finished unpacking some of his books at their old place, and yet here they are again. It isn't a record for them, that's for sure, but it is still notable. Especially given the tone of the past two moves.

The move to Hemlock Grove—that had seemed so simple and calm at first. A new start. A chance for them to be closer to family and to honor Nicolae. Then the murders and the suspicion and those strange government agents. And, _oh God_, Letha. The decision to leave hadn't just been prudent—it had been necessary. A cleansing. A call. They had backtracked west after that, moving inland and back toward West Virginia. The state had a healthy list of state forests, areas for them to get lost and for Peter to run away his grief. The land there spoke of freedom, had once been hunted by the Shawnee and Cherokee. After the pain of Hemlock Grove, this rural area not far outside of Greenbrier had seemed like another fresh beginning.

Okay, yes, maybe shaving his head hadn't been the smartest or the most stylish idea on Peter's part, but he had been sick with grief. It was a reaction, something he could control. What Peter hadn't predicted was a whole new wave of backlash and distrust. Those at his new school who didn't already suspect and hate him for being a gypsy had thought he was some sort of crazy neo-Nazi. Peter half-heartedly tried to explain to a few people the idiocy of a Romani being a Nazi given the history of discrimination and otherness, but he hadn't put much heart into it, hadn't really connected with or met anyone who he felt like making such an effort with. He mostly sat in the back of classroom after classroom, counting the minutes until the end of his senior year, counting the seconds until the weekend—the only time when his mother would let him run.

It is all he lives for now—the run. The wolf is always clawing underneath his skin. Now that he can change at will, his whole life feels like the day of a full-moon—his sense of smell is heightened, his craving for meat and blood constant, his temper just a bit shorter. His whole body feels an urge for escape, to be alone in the woods. He felt that way all the time in West Virginia and it was likely telegraphed in his every word and move. He couldn't help but think that those sacks of meat sitting around him in class could go fuck themselves. He had the wolf—that was all he needed. He was alone.

They had moved again after Peter had flunked out of his last math class. It wasn't the concepts—it was the homework. He just couldn't concentrate, couldn't view it as important. Not when he still dreamed of Letha and blood, not when there were sounds and smells in the woods. His mother had been furious. Passing his GED had helped temper some of the fury, but West Virginia had been spoiled now. They packed their bags once again.

They drove eastward and north, barely talking until they reached Mohawk Valley. They had never lived in New York before. Peter had always envisioned New York as one big city, the whole state awash of light and flash and mechanical noise. He had never imagined the smell of pine and running water, the sound of wild birds rustling in lush leaves.

"Let's make this one work," his mother sighs now, staring somberly at the cloudy kissed sky. Peter mumbles an agreement, turning to lug the chaotically packed boxes into their new trailer.

"It's Friday tomorrow," Peter mentions casually, slipping a stack of plates into a cabinet. "I thought I could check out that woodsy area to the north. Get the lay of the land…"

"We already talked about this," Lynda interrupts, setting down a pile of books a bit harder than necessary. "There's a community here. I don't want to step on any toes. You get permission, you can run—but I don't want to make any waves here, Peter. We've had enough trouble in our lives. If you need to be out there, you need to tell the elders. There's a protocol."

"What happens if they don't give me permission?"

Lynda hesitates, staring at the books she had set on the table. "Maybe we should stop unpacking for now… want some Mac and Cheese, baby?"

Peter feels the wolf's hair rise under his skin, a tension growing in his neck. He lets her get away with her lack of an answer, knowing that there is no other choice for staying here in New York. Tomorrow, Peter will do his best to be the best gypsy he can be. He'll be respectful and remember the old ways.

Lydia pours the plastic-like cheese mixture into two bowls, and Peter forces a smile. They are silent as they eat together, pretending that the boy sitting at the table is the same one his mother knew as a boy. That they are still a family, whole and together—that neither of them are alone.

.  
.

"I want him gone."

Dr. Pryce holds back a grimace as he finishes adjusting a test-tube. When Bishop Gray had invested so heavily last year, Pryce had thought he was earning freedom from the kind of meddling the Godfreys had inflicted upon him. However, Gray has proven himself to be far worse—it isn't just his interest and attempt at control over Pryce's experiments, although that is also infuriating. No, it is his obsession with the young Godfrey heir.

"He is gone. At college. He has shown very little interest in coming back to Hemlock Grove or in taking up the reigns of this business. I fail to see how he could _be_ much more absent, really. So he is, for all intense and purposes, 'gone.'"

The old priest grimaces and his jaw clenches in stress. "The controlling share in this company is still controlled by that… _ahem_, him. Which means all expansion project votes need his presence. And he has spent most of the year, as you noted, avoiding any semblance of responsibility. We can't move forward."

Pryce smiles to himself over the Bishop's disgust. The religious man clearly knows what the boy really is—he hasn't said as much, but his animosity melded with fear still telegraphs it. The doctor wonders what else the man knows. So many possibilities. "We can move forward just fine. The young Godfrey has approved every project I've brought before him. You just mean you can't move forward without his knowledge. Isn't that right?"

The older man scowls, the shadows around his eyes dark. "Is there a way to force him off of the board?"

Pryce sighs dramatically, pausing a moment to take a sample from one of his new plant hybrids. He does this with exceeding slowness, savoring the impatient shifting of the Bishop's feet. "No—Olivia's will was quite clear. The only way Roman Godfrey loses majority control of Godfrey Enterprises is if he gives it up willingly. Or…" He pauses, letting the silence reel the older man in. "…if he goes missing or dies. But god forbid anything like that happens."

"Oh yes," the voice behind Dr. Pryce whispers. "God forbid."

Pryce smiles to himself as Gray leaves abruptly, barely muttering an excuse under his breath. Pryce couldn't care less who runs the company. All he needs is his lab and quiet and time. If Gray wants to take steps against the young Godfrey, so be it. That left Pryce more time on his own. Let the priest and the boy war it out. Pryce would, as always, keep his head down—focused on the miracles of science.

He watches intently as he pricks one of his plant's leaves. His eyes widen in delight as the leaf splits, cracks, and drips a drop of brilliant red blood.

.  
.

Roman pours carefully from the tupperwear into a ceramic mug. The contents are a day and a half old and taste bitter now. His jaw aches and his nerves feel aflame as he gulps down the girl's blood in great mouthfuls. There's not enough, really—there never is, but it's the most he is willing to take. Anything more would be too risky, would be dangerous.

After a few moments, the hunger pangs recede. After a few more moments, the voices quiet. Finally, Roman breathes a sigh of relief. It's a brief respite, but it will do.

The sun reflects off of the metal and glass of the surrounding skyline and Roman basks in the silence and the light. The serenity won't last—soon, the sun will start to make his skin itch and it won't be long before the voices return. But for now, he is content. Well… mostly. A part of him knows that—despite the fact that he's had a new, nameless woman in his bed each night of the weekend for months now, despite the fact that he is constantly surrounded by crowds at the hottest clubs, despite the fact that people want to know him and be known by him at college—he has never been more alone in his life. He has no way to change that. He only has routine and silence and survival.

When he is finished draining the mug, he leaves the window and turns back to the kitchen. There, he hesitates for only a moment before picking up the tupperwear and licking it clean. Roman wonders to himself if it will always be like this...

.

.

Peter waits at a stained kitchen table, a now nearly empty mug of tea resting before him. The house looks cheap—an old track home, worn with age. It doesn't have the warmth of memories the way he always felt Nicolae's trailer did. To him, this house doesn't feel like Romani live here—at least, not his kind.

But the old man who enters the room does have the same worn and wise look that Peter remembers from childhood campfires. The man's aura is warm and Peter relaxes slightly.

"Devlesa avilan," the elder says in greeting. _"It is God who brought you." _His voice is heavy and sounds like gravel.

"Devlesa araklam tume," Peter responds. _"It is with God that I found you."_

The man nods, pleased with the answer. "Si'n Rom? Ande save vitsa?"

Peter shakes his head, tries not to hesitate. "I don't have a community or tribe. My kin was an outsider. My mother and I are also—we travel."

"Really? Your kin was pikie?"

"Yes, sir. Expelled from his community quite some time ago. He… he's passed since."

The older man snorts and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a silver cigarette case. He offers one to Peter—practically forcing one on him—before lighting his own. "You said you are here with your mother, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you are both welcome to our community. My sons, they are not much older than you. They can help you find a job—we have cousins in scrap metal if nothing else. It is good, honest work. You are welcome here—no need to stay out on the edge of town alone, my boy. These are not the old times. Some old ways do not have to always be followed. Prikaza and bad providence is not passed through blood—this nonsense of the kin of pikie being outsiders as well is ridiculous. Romani should stick together. No need to ask further—you should come to dinner tomorrow. Alana's daughter is turning sixteen and there will be so much food, I'm not sure what we will do with it all! Baba Siena has been marinating lamb all day. It will be a grand Romani welcome!"

"That's not… sir, with all due respect, I didn't come here to ask to join your community."

The elder is silent, the smoke billowing around his face as his expression hardens into seriousness. "I see. What did you come here to ask then?"

Peter licks his lips and mentally reaches into the heart of the wolf for comfort and strength. "I… I am a runner. I came here, out of respect, to ask your permission to run the woods on the north of town."

The room is silent now. Peter breaths slowly, feeling the tension surrounding him. He can smell the sweat on the elder's neck. Can hear the old man's hand tighten on his chair's wooden arm. "You are vârcolac." The old man speaks this as a statement rather than a question, but Peter still nods in agreement. The elder bites out a curse under his breath and then takes a long drag off of his cigarette. His fingers shake ever so slightly. "On the full moon?"

"Actually, sir, I made the red sacrifice. I have no constraints by the moon."

"I see. Well…" The elder stubs out his cigarette and stares intently at his hands for a moment. When he meets Peter's gaze again, his brown eyes are sharp. "This country has not always been kind to our people. You know that, don't you boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not far from here," the man's graveled voice continues, "there were strict laws saying where our people could live, what businesses they could own, what they could sell. Limitations, legalized discriminations. Do you know when those laws were lifted?" Peter shakes his head silently. "1998. My grandchildren were born into a country which had professed for hundreds of years to be the land of the free—where hard working men could have success and fortune—and yet they kept laws which essentially forbid Romani from sharing that dream. It's been barely a decade since those laws were rescinded. There are still people who hate us. They have no cause to, but they do."

"I know, sir."

"Of course you know. You're Romani. But you're not of our people. You are right—you _are_ an outsider. Both cursed men and dogs are unclean and cannot be accepted into a gypsie home. And yet, here you are at my table. I hope you do not think me rude for my concern, but history is not so long past. I cannot have suspicion raised against my people."

"There will be none," Peter insists. "I have control. I'm careful. I promise."

"Even the most careful man can chips a glass. Your promise means little. However… I will give you my blessing to use the woods. Just know that my community is at risk by you being here."

"Yes. I know. Sorry."

"Do not be sorry. Be careful." The elder hesitates. "About tomorrow's dinner…"

"Don't worry, uncle. I will not attend. I'll stay away from the community, your treasures, and your women."

The elder nods. "Thank you for understanding. If you were anything else, we would welcome you with open arms…"

"I know, sir."

Peter bows his head slightly in thanks. He knows better than to offer to shake the elder's hand now that he has been revealed as unclean. As a dog. As a runner. As a vârcolac.

The sun is low in the sky by the time Peter leaves. He feels the familiar sense of his other self stretching inside him, silently begging to be released, to run. Peter nods, finding solace in the comfort of the wolf. At least with it he feels a little less alone.

...

_**TO BE CONTINUED… **_


	2. Chapter 2 - Their Eyes

**Author's Note: **So, I'm a big fan of Lili Taylor who plays Lynda, Peter's mom, in _Hemlock Grove_. I think she's just a gem of an actress and her roles are often fascinating. Well, if you agree with me and want to see one of the strangest vampire films ever, I just recently watched _The Addiction_ from 1995. It's an art/philosophy film where Lili Taylor is turned into a vampire. Also, Christopher Walken briefly shows up. It's wonderful and confusing and weird—highly recommended, folks! (#themoreyouknow)

_~ Tsuki_

**…**

***I do not own _Hemlock Grove_. All characters are the property of Brian McGreevy, Eli Roth, and Netflix. No infringement intended; just a bit of fun!***

**…**

**Chrysalis - A Hemlock Grove Story**

…

**Chapter Two: Their Eyes**

Two months have passed—so far, New York has been quiet, nice, and mostly uneventful. Lynda has found a job at a local herb and new age shop, a connection from a friend of a friend of a fellow gypsy. To Peter, she seems happy. She has become friendly with her coworkers and occasionally meets them for tea on weekends or after work.

Peter hasn't had the same luck. He's talked to auto shops and local grocery stores—he's willing to work hard, knows his way around a car, and has always been good with lifting grocery boxes and other sorts of manual labor—but every business that he visits tells him that there is no need for more help, they're all filled up, no need to hire someone else on. People are apologetic, but also guarded. Some community members seem to be wary of him because he is Romani. The Romani themselves, however, give him more obvious sideways glances and talk in hushed tones. They seem tense and cautious, sometimes even frightened of walking near him on the street. Peter is not sure he blames them, but it stings just a little.

In town, he feels more alone than ever.

The woods, however, are like nowhere else. The smells are amazing and the greenery is lush. He and the wolf both love it—his feet (_paws_) in the river or his hair (_fur_) being blown by the breeze. Sometimes, Peter has the urge to go there during the day, to shift and run and maybe never turn back into his normal form. Things just make sense in the woods. His life as a human feels empty in comparison. There's nothing for him in town, no one who seems to want to know him.

Well, except for Alice Waller. Alice is fifteen or sixteen, with dark brown hair and large hazel eyes, which she sometimes covers with purple hued contacts. She wears black bracelets and clunky boots. She doesn't quite own enough accessories—or have enough courage—to be truly gothic, but she seems to be trying to invoke the aesthetic as she wears cut-off black and grey striped knee-high socks as arm warmers and layers plain silver necklaces over an old thrift store rosary. Her best friend Samantha (who prefers to be called Sammy) is an interesting contrast to her friend. She has fiery red hair and wears yellow and pink sundresses. Peter sees them often outside the town's lone coffeeshop, Alice braiding bracelets or sketching in a journal, Sammy laughing over magazine personality quizzes or sharing celebrity gossip—the sunnier girl has an affection for tabloids, just as her gloomier friend seems to have an affection for teasing her about it.

Alice and Sammy are two of the only people in town who Peter can always count on to give him a wave and a smile. Sammy seems to like him mostly because she loves to tease Alice about her stammering and near blushing at Peter's presence. It's fairly obvious the pseudo-goth has a youthful crush on the Romani man, which flatters Peter and saddens him at the same time. Her bashful looks remind him of Christina, of white fur and teeth and blood. But he tries not to let that show on his face.

Today, Alice is wearing red and has—from the looks of it—tried to color her lipstick darker with a black eye-pencil. The result is uneven and splotchy. Sammy is chattering away about something she is reading, her arms gesturing dramatically as she tries to make a point. Alice gives a small chuckle, then startles when she sees Peter, pausing to give him a bashful wave as her cheeks blush. Sammy looks his way and grins. "Hey! Peter! Get over here!"

Peter raises an eyebrow, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed at how confident the girl seems that he has nowhere else to be.

"You have to settle a debate for us," Sammy continues.

"Saaaaaammy," Alice's low tone is tense and embarrassed. "I'm sure Peter doesn't care about celebrities."

"I don't know much," Peter admits, unable to keep the grin from his face, "but I'll do my best. What's the debate?"

"Okay, the topic at hand." Sammy clears her throat and rests her hand dramatically on her copy of _US Weekly_. "Is Roman Godfrey the male Paris Hilton? Yes or no?"

Peter's blood turns to ice and the smile falls from his face in shock. "What?"

"See," Alice groans. "I told you he wouldn't know who Roman Godfrey was. God, Sammy you're so—"

"I know who he is," Peter interrupts. "I mean, yes, sort of. We went to school together. Briefly. But how—how do you know who he is?"

"Oh. My. God," Sammy practically squeals. "You went to school with him!? When? Where? In Hemlock Grove, right? Oh my god, you lived there? I want details. Did you meet the creepy killer sister? Is Roman as cute in real life? Is he a snob? Oh God, he's a snob, isn't he?"

"Uh, no, he was… he was always trying to be nice. His sister too. She always seemed like a nice person."

Sammy sighs and shakes her head. "They always do, don't they? Every serial killer story, like, _ever_ says that—they always seemed so nice and normal! Ugh, it gives me chills."

"It seems like, from the stories, that they teased her a lot for being different," Alice says quietly. "I can understand how she might want to get back at them. I mean, it's not right, but I can understand."

"Oh sure, sure," Sammy spurts dismissively. "But still, talk about an over-reaction!"

"How," Peter asks again, "do you know any of this? And what's that about Paris Hilton?"

Sammy flips through her magazine, clearly looking for a specific picture. "Between the murders and the guy becoming, like, the youngest, richest, and hottest CEO ever, Roman Godfrey was big news for a moment. But then it just became tabloid fun to follow him around the club scene. He's been photographed with models, singers, other people mostly known just for being famous and rich. Thus the Paris Hilton comparison."

"He's not like Paris Hilton," Alice insists. "He's probably trying to forget about all that horrible stuff that happened to him. He's had a lot of tragedy in his life. He's more like… well, Batman. Rich playboy, parents killed…"

"Why do you know anything about Batman?" Sammy interrupts.

Alice shrugs. "I like Tim Burton. I've seen all his movies."

"Wait, parents plural?" Peter turns, his chest feeling tighter by the moment. "Olivia is dead?"

"His mom?" Sammy responds. "Yeah. She was found in her house with her throat, like, torn all open. The police think maybe the sister came back and, like, murdered her mom before skipping town. It wasn't as bloody as the other murders but it was, like, still pretty gruesome apparently." Peter took a deep breath, trying to process the information in between the scattered "likes."

"You said he's been at clubs with famous people? There are no clubs around Hemlock Grove."

"Uh, no duh," Sammy laughs. "You obviously aren't facebook friends with the guy or anything. He went away to college. Princeton. But he seems to spend most of his downtime in the city. Ah, here it is!" Sammy hands the open magazine to Peter.

Peter tries not to gasp. The picture is of a group at a fashionable New York club. On the far left is a model-looking girl with too-white teeth and too-tanned skin. Her cheeks are flushed by alcohol and she is wearing a page-boy hat slightly askew. Next to her is a child actress who Peter recognizes and vaguely remembers some magazine in a grocery store having the glaring headline that the actress had been on a 'downward spiral' and arrested more than once for drunk driving and cocaine use. She is also over tanned, but her tone is more orange, like she used a fake spray-tan, and her hair is bleached an unnatural blond. Next to both of these women, Roman Godfrey looks almost unearthly. In contrast to the women's skin tones, Roman's skin is pale marble white. His clothes are rich and dark, tailored to his body but also slightly wrinkled—giving the impression that the wearer is rich enough not to care about taking care of his expensive clothes. His pink lips are turned half-upward in a smirk, but the smile does not reach his lips. In fact, that is the most striking detail in the whole picture. Roman Godrefy's eyes.

Peter has a clear memory of Roman's eyes. They lit up when he laughed or smiled. They became round and watery when he felt hurt. Roman was always terrible at hiding his emotions—his eyes told everything. But the eyes in the photograph are not those eyes. The eyes of this Roman Godfrey are cold, like glass and stone. They look like Olivia's eyes. The sight makes Peter's heart sink and his stomach tighten.

"I… I have to go," Peter says, turning away. Sammy clears her throat and Peter realizes he is still holding the magazine, his hand clenched tight, wrinkling several pages. He mutters out an apology and gives the magazine back, ignoring the girls' confused looks following him as he makes his way home.

.

.

When one gets a summons from Bishop Gray, it is a good idea to be on one's guard. Gray is the Vatican's head of SCD, the Supernatural Control Division, and therefore the boss of exorcists and hunters alike. He has a kind exterior, but his kindness never touches his eyes. He is unwavering in his mission, determined and ruthless.

The last time Michael Chasseur had seen Bishop Gray, it was at a meeting about Clementine's death. Clementine… his poor sister. Michael winces at the memory before stealing himself as Gray comes to stand before him.

"Welcome, my son," the older man says, his voice warm yet somehow still steely. "God smiles upon you. You have a new task to serve him."

"Thank you, sir," Michael bows his head, his hand on his heart. "What would best serve the Lord?"

The Bishop nods. "There are signs of a vampire in New York. He or she is using the nightlife there for hunting."

"How many deaths?" Michael asks.

"Deaths? None definitive so far. Just early signs of trouble."

Michael frowns at the response. "Sir?"

The Bishop's eyes grow colder, darker—his face half hidden by a shadow. "Is something the matter, my child?"

Michael hesitates. "We just don't often go after vampires, sir. They are usually discreet, and if this one hasn't killed anyone…"

"Are you questioning the will of the Lord, my son?"

"_No_, Father!" Michael insists. "It's just…"

It's just that this doesn't feel right. This isn't a typical mission. He is used to folders containing photos of blood-soaked bodies and faces fixed forever in silent screams. As far as Michael knows, in recent history they have never acted preemptively against a creature, especially a vampire. Typically, they left vampires well enough alone, unless there were several obvious linked deaths. Vampires were frequently found in positions of strength and power—it was practical to go after the much bloodier and out of control targets, like werewolves and demons.

Bishop Gray shakes his head, as if reading Michael's thoughts. "They are all children of Satan, Michael, and must be stopped. Just because we have no clear proof of deaths, also, does not mean the monster hasn't killed." Gray places his hand on Michael's shoulder. "Steel thyself. And go with God."

"Yes, sir." Michael bows his head and takes the thin file-folder from the Bishop's hand. As he leaves, he tries to feel determined, tries to feel God's will. But all he can see in his heart is the Bishop's cold and cunning eyes.

.

.

Lynda is worried about Peter. She has been ever since Hemlock Grove.

In Pennsylvania, she hadn't felt like she needed to worry. Peter had been her little boy all grown up. Jovial, capable, independent, and kind. But then that town had torn her baby to pieces. She's still not sure what caused the most damage—Letha's death or the confrontation with the _vargolf_. But either way, she can't help but feel that something tore at her child's soul. He isn't the same young man he once was. His smile is sadder, his eyes distant. She catches him staring at the forest more than she would like.

He has been running every weekend. And that scares her. The transformation is rough on the human body—there is extreme pain, tearing of tendon and shifting of bone. The flesh ripping open. Jaw cracking and changing. She remembers when Peter first shifted as a child—he cried for days, asking why, never wanting it to happen again. But now he can hardly wait for it—like he's trying to escape something. Like he is more comfortable in the flesh of the wolf than he is in his own as a man.

She's tried to give him space. Tried not to argue. But every shift seems to pull him deeper out to the woods. Seems to make his eyes just a bit less human. It makes Lynda want to cry and scream. But she doesn't. Instead, she just watches.

She is making baked chicken when Peter comes home. His brow is furrowed in thought.

"Hey, baby. Everything okay?"

Peter looks over at her and then hesitates for half of a moment. "Yeah, mom. Everything's fine."

Lynda has always been able to tell when Peter is lying. It's in his eyes. There's no question that he's keeping something from her now, something worrying and preoccupying. But she lets it go. She cannot force Peter to tell her any more than she can force him to stop changing. She can only be patient and calm.

Peter is silent as she pops the chicken in the oven and sets a timer. He is silent as she pours some frozen peas in a container and places them in the microwave. He is silent as she coats the peas with salt and butter. Then he suddenly says, "I realized today that I haven't seen the city."

Lynda raises an eyebrow and looks over at her son. He isn't looking at her, is keeping his eyes fixed across the room. "Oh?" she says.

"Yeah. And it's so close. I thought maybe I'd take a bus there. Check it out. Maybe this weekend."

Now Lynda's breath catches in her throat. She knows Peter's keeping something from her, that she should be skeptical and worried. But… "That would mean you'd miss a chance to run," she reminds him.

Peter shrugs. "I know. But I've been shifting too much anyway. It's probably good to take a break. Maybe seeing the city would be good for me—get me out of the woods, you know?"

Lynda is silent, her eyes searching Peter's face. He is nervous about something, but there is a glint of excitement and anticipation in his eyes. He wants her to say yes. He wants to go, for some mysterious reason. He wants to go and be a young man in the city. Human.

"I think that's a good idea," she finally responds. Peter smiles, the nervousness fading as the excitement in his expression grows. He tries to push down a smile, but it still peaks through, lighting up his face in a way that Lynda hasn't seen for a long time.

She's not quite sure what venture she has supported. She's not quite sure what Peter is seeking in New York. But for the first time in over a year, Lynda sees her son's smile reach his eyes. It is only for a moment, but it's enough for now. It's something. It's hope.

…

**To be continued… **


	3. Chapter 3 - New York, New York

**Author's Note:** This chapter was difficult, but fun to write. But now I just can't wait for the next part. By the way, if you start having vampire withdrawal after this chapter's over, check out my friend's blog. She was the one I watched _The Addiction_ with and she's been watching vampire movies and blogging about them all summer. Check out fangtasticfilm (.dot) blogspot ( .com). So far, I've found her reviews pretty spot on/fun. Enjoy! _ ~ Tsuki_

…

***I do not own _Hemlock Grove_. All characters are the property of Brian McGreevy, Eli Roth, and Netflix. No infringement intended; just a bit of fun!***

**…**

**Chrysalis - A Hemlock Grove Story**

**…**

**Chapter Three: New York, New York**

.

The whole situation smells funny. In fact, it stinks something rotten. Michael flips through the file one more time, glaring at each page as if to dare it to seem any fishier. There are no police reports. No eyewitness accounts. No indication as to where any of this information came from. Just a list of dates and club sightings—vaguely typed descriptions of likely vampire movements. It's just about the shadiest and sparsest file Michael has ever seen. Just about.

The one describing the death of his sister. That came close.

Michael scowls, looking up from the file and rubbing his eyes. He hears birds chirping. He has been up all night and the dawn is creeping over the horizon. Even without meaning to, it seems he has started to keep a vampire's schedule. Well, so much the better for hunting one.

Michael closes the file. Tomorrow (later today, actually, dear lord it's getting brighter out), he will leave for New York. He doesn't know why Bishop Gray is keeping information from him, but he knows he must keep his faith and press forward. Without his sister, without Clementine, his faith is all he has.

.

.

Peter doesn't know what he was expecting. He didn't really have much of a plan, even as he boarded the dingy Greyhound bus. New York City was a huge place and Roman Godfrey was just one man. Finding him would be like trying to find a black cat in a coal mine.

When he had gotten off of the bus, the sights and sounds of the city had hit him like a tidal wave. It had been almost impossible to concentrate. He breathed for a moment. He took in the lights and crowds. He bought a pretzel. Eventually, he made his way to Central Park. There, the small scratch of nature calmed him again, centered him.

He took the subway. Got off to visit a library. He wrote down the name of every club Roman had been photographed at in the tabloids. There were only six, recurring and patterned. He wrote down the addresses. He went to their locations and took a deep breath, smelling.

There was the hint of a familiar scent, the memory of Roman. Faint. Almost imaginary.

"What are you doing?" Peter hears a voice laugh now. He turns to see a well-dressed man and woman eyeing him with bemusement. Peter realizes he probably looks like a crazy person, smelling around like a dog. He looks away, sheepish.

"I was just… um… I'm kind of lost." It's the only excuse he can come up with. He can't imagine that "smelling the air" would have satisfied the question.

"Okay," the man smirks, "where are you trying to go?"

"I… well, it's not exactly where. I'm actually looking for someone. Roman Godfrey. Do you know him?"

The woman half-coughs and half-laughs and looks away. Peter recognizes that lack of eye-contact, the slight blush at the top of her cheeks. He had seen it all over Hemlock Grove. "A bit," the woman confirms.

"We see him out and about," the man agrees, waving loosely at the closed clubs. "But then, so does everyone. Why?"

"I… I just moved to New York. Roman and I used to know each other in Hemlock Grove. Thought I'd take a chance, try to find him… you know…" Peter knows he sounds suspicious. The story—while mostly true—sounds fishy even to him. The two strangers exchange a look and Peter curses to himself silently, getting ready to move on and come up with a less embarrassing plan.

"He usually rotates what club he goes to," the woman finally smiles. "He never goes to the same one twice in a row."

"I think he was at 52 last weekend, so…" the man starts.

"On Friday," the woman corrects. "But he went to Fuse on Saturday."

"Ah, that's right. I think I heard Sal say he saw him there. I'd forgotten. So, yes, that means your best bets tonight are Pearl and Trinity. I'd start there."

Peter blinks for a moment, stunned. "Um… thanks."

"No problem," the man says, his voice shifting to preoccupation as he checks his phone.

"You're not going dressed like that, right?" the woman laughs. Peter hesitates, looking down at his old striped button-up and ripped jeans.

"Uh, I was planning on it. Not good?"

"Not good," the woman agrees. Her smile is flirty, but mildly disapproving. "You've got a few hours. Go make yourself presentable. Nothing less than a good name-brand. Otherwise, you'll never get in."

Peter mutters a thanks again as the pair walk away. He puts his hands in his pockets and curses. He doesn't have much money—he'll have to get some clothes the old fashioned gypsy way. But, even if he does, who knows if this is a complete waste of time? Who knows what he will do if he even finds Roman?

Who knows if Roman even wants to be 'found'?

.

.

For Roman, it's been a difficult week—a paper due for his sociology class and too much time forcing a smile and pretending to care about normalcy. He used up the last of his Tupperware blood yesterday; it had been in the fridge a day too long again and had developed a sour, almost fermented flavor.

He's on edge tonight, his neck tense. He doesn't know if it is going to be one of those evenings where he stays out until dawn and drowns his frustrations in alcohol and noise, or one of those nights when he hooks the first acceptable woman he sees and uses his gaze to force her to leave with him. He doesn't know what his tolerance is for humanity right now… it doesn't feel very high.

As he enters Trinity, the music is a roar of electronic hums and drum beats. He sees a group he vaguely recognizes in the VIP section; one is a pop star he knows casually, who buys coke from the same dealer Roman does. He heads over, gives greetings all around, orders a drink. It's routine. It's familiar.

He sits next to a woman who claims to be an up-and-coming clothing designer. She immediately puts her hand on Roman's leg.

He closes his eyes. He listens to the music. He tries to decide how much he hates this.

His drink is empty quickly. There's no server around the VIP section at the moment, so he stands up to make his way to the bar and… freezes.

He blinks, wonders if he's seeing things.

When the vision in the crowd before him doesn't change, he feels his body go numb, like a limb that has fallen asleep. This, Roman realizes, seems to be a different type of night all together.

.

.

Peter had thankfully found a thrift shop not too far out of walking distance. He stole an overpriced-for-used button-up Versace shirt, which mostly fit, and then paid for a leather cuff bracelet to avoid seeming suspicious. He knew his jeans were still not quite fashionable, but he hoped this was at least acceptable enough to get into the club.

When the bouncer hesitates at the door of Trinity, Peter's heart leaps into his throat. "I'm looking for someone," he blurts out. "A friend."

The bouncer gives him a skeptical look and then smirks. "Aren't we all?" He checks behind him, looking for a signal of some sort, and then waves Peter in.

Peter has never been to a club before. Certainly not a big city club. Heck, he hasn't stayed in one place long enough to go to many school dances.

The music makes his head hurt and the lights are blinding in some areas, while the lack of light makes other sections pitch dark. The bar is crowded, the dance floor more sparsely occupied by either serious dancers or people who seem to be more posing than dancing, just waiting for someone to notice them. The whole room smells of sweat and alcohol and anxiety. People wanting to be desired. People wanting to be loved. People afraid of death. People afraid of being alone.

Peter feels incredibly uncomfortable. He tries to look around the room, tries to wander a bit through the crowd. But the club is so full of crannies and pockets, areas for people to get lost, that he starts to feel the familiar pang of frustration and hopelessness.

Then he turns and falls into cold blue eyes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Roman asks. He has to yell to be heard over the music, but the tone still comes off as cold and impassive. It makes Peter almost flinch.

"I heard you might be here," Peter yells back. "I was… I was in town."

Roman is silent now, his cold eyes looking Peter up and down a moment, as if considering. Then he jerks his head sideways, signaling to the exit.

As they walked into the cooling night air, Peter watches Roman's stride. It is tense but elegant. Roman had always been graceful, but his movements now are something else—almost otherworldly. Roman walks over to a man in a black suit and gestures, handing him something. A few moments later, a sleek silver sports-car is driven up to the curb.

"Get in," Roman says flatly.

Peter raises an eyebrow. "What happened to the jag?"

Roman half-flinches as he opens the driver's side door. The pained expression breaks—just for a moment—the cold mask he's been wearing. "Would you believe I totaled it?"

"What? You loved that car!"

"Yeah, well…" the mask is back now and the temperature inside the vehicle feels like it is dropping rapidly, "…I wasn't exactly in the best mindset."

Peter bets that he knows around when that was—bets that he was sporting a pained expression and a shaved head himself around the same time.

They drive in silence for a moment before Peter finally asks, "Where are we going?"

"My place," Roman responds flatly. "I figured you didn't come all the way out here to yell over the music of some club."

"No," Peter agrees. More silence. There is ambient electronic music coming through the car's speakers. Peter looks out the window at the city lights for a while before saying, "Does this song have a fucking harpsichord in it?"

Roman hesitates for a moment. "Sounds like it."

Peter chuckles. "Seriously?"

"What's wrong with it?" Roman asks, his brow wrinkling slightly. "You hate harpsichord?"

"No, it sounds great. That's what's weird. I can't believe this is your music. Last I heard, you were a gansta' rap aficionado." Peter's voice is light and teasing. He searches Roman's marble white face. Finally, the young man smiles a bitter smile.

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I've gone through some… changes. Lately."

"I've noticed," Peter whispers. Roman nods in response.

"Yeah, well, my hearing's better. You wouldn't believe how terrible that stuff sounds with super-hearing."

Peter grins, his teeth flashing and wolfish. "I hate to break it to you, Godfrey, but people with normal hearing thought it was shit too."

Roman seems to try to flash him a glare, but a small smirk breaks through. "Fuck you, Rumancek."

For just a moment, Peter sees the sun. It flashes across Roman's face for just an instant, warm and familiar. But then the smirk fades and the coldness is back again. Roman's face shifts into its marble mask, so reminiscent of Olivia that it makes Peter's skin crawl.

The wolf is freaking out under his skin. It's growling warnings, all instincts screaming that this situation is unsafe. There's nowhere to run. There's a large predator close. Peter should bite his neck, tear at his arms, and then run.

But Peter ignores the wolf's instincts. This is Roman—the one who he set out to find. His friend at one time. Sure, he and Roman didn't always understand each other or have everything in common, but Roman was always a good person. Peter takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down and get the wolf to relax.

"We're here," Roman finally says, pulling into a garage. They're away from the noise and the lights now. It's a nice, mostly residential district, all arch-windowed lofts, condos, and town-houses. Peter follows Roman inside a white building and into an elevator. They take the lift to the top floor.

When they get to Roman's apartment, Peter can't help but gasp. Just the main room is larger than most spaces he and his mother have lived.

"Shit… nice place," Peter half-laughs.

Roman is silent. He walks over to the kitchen. Peter hears him unhook his watch and place it and what sounds like a ring in a small glass bowl. There is a rustle of cotton as he rolls up his sleeves.

Peter turns away and surveys what he can see of the loft. The lines of the room are clean and modern—metal and glass—with just a hint of an art deco aesthetic. A light from an espresso maker on the kitchen counter gives the room a blue glow, the wide windows reflecting the city lights in the distance.

"You know I found out you had moved from a teenage girl and her tabloids," Peter chuckles. "Crazy, right?"

"Not that crazy." Roman's voice is hushed and inexpressive. "It's not like we were pen-pals, Rumancek."

"Yeah…" Peter breaths. "You know, Roman, I—"

"Peter," Roman interrupts. At the sound of his name, Peter turns.

The punch to the nose is unexpected, as is the full weight of Roman coming down on top of him. The breath escapes from Peter's lungs as he's knocked back into the carpet, and he doesn't even have a moment to draw it back before Roman's hands are around his throat, Roman's fingers digging against his windpipe. Peter gasps, chokes, tries to throw Roman off. But the young man is stronger than Peter could have imagined and his eyes are practically glowing ice silver. Peter's vision blurs, starts to fade, and all he can see now is Roman's mouth, snarling and open, white fangs gleaming in the night.

…

**To be continued… **


	4. Chapter 4 - Revelations

**Author's Note:** This chapter is all one scene—less jumping around and instead "all Peter and Roman, all the time!" I finally get to reveal what happened to Roman, and leave you all with a clue about what's coming in Chapter Five (hint: I'll need to switch the rating officially to 'M' at that one). Can't wait to share it with you all! _ ~ Tsuki_

**…**

***I do not own _Hemlock Grove_. All characters are the property of Brian McGreevy, Eli Roth, and Netflix. No infringement intended; just a bit of fun!***

**…**

**Chrysalis - A Hemlock Grove Story**

**…**

**Chapter Four**:**Revelations**

Peter claws at Roman's hands, his jaw aching as he tries to pry his friend's grip from his throat. Above him, Roman's eyes are a bright glowing silver, and his teeth have morphed from his typical white, orthodontic smile into a nightmare of feline-like fangs.

"How… _dare_… you…" Roman's voice is dark and somehow wet. Peter is confused by the sound for a moment before he feels tiny droplets on his cheeks: Roman is crying. "How dare you show up like _nothing_… like…" His voice cracks, breaks. He takes a deep gulping breath and tightens his grip on Peter's throat again. "You _left_ me. You left me _alone_ with… you have no idea what I had to… how _could_ you! You fucking bastard. I should kill you for… how could you just _leave_! I _needed_ you!"

Peter finally pries away two of Roman's fingers, allowing him to suck in a gulping breath. "I had to leave. I couldn't—I couldn't stay in Hemlock Grove, Roman. I was grieving too, remember? I couldn't be there for you when I was—" A harsh hissing sound escapes from Roman's mouth as he clamps down on Peter's throat again.

"Oh yes, you _had_ to leave. You gypsy fuck! I lost my cousin. I lost my sister! I needed you there! You could have stopped… you could have stopped her… stopped me… I…" The sob escapes in full force now and Roman buckles and falls, his hands slipping away from Peter's throat and instead fastening on his black shirt. Roman grips the fabric in tight fists, as if he could hold Peter in place and stop him from disappearing again. A long, loud moan emerges from the depths of Roman, and his arms and shoulders start to tremble. To Peter, it looks like Roman is practically collapsing in on himself.

The wolf is growling in Peter's head, urging him to either attack or flee. The wolf had been right, after all—Roman was dangerous. A killer. A predator.

But Peter can't explain to his wolf why he has to stay where he is. Why he has to grab Roman by the shoulders and pull him close. To whisper apologies into his hair. To let Roman cry and scream into his chest.

Roman's each word is punctuated by a guttural sob as he clings to Peter. "You… _left_… me… with… _her_… and… I… _God_… Peter… I…"

"It's okay," Peter whispers. He tightens his arms around Roman, bringing him even closer. He ignores that this motion brings Roman's mouth within biting distance of his throat—the wolf isn't pleased. "I'm here. I'm sorry. It's okay." He makes soft shushing noises. Roman's sobs eventually soften, his breaths becoming slower and slower until they ultimately resemble a normal state of breathing.

Finally, Roman lets out a bitter, damp laugh. "I think I got snot all over your shirt."

"That's okay," Peter says, keeping his voice hushed. "It was used, and I stole it anyway."

Roman half-laughs, another belated tear making its way down his face. "Fuck…" Roman pulls back, looking around as if to get a bearing on his surroundings. "Want a drink?"

It's Peter's turn to laugh now. "Fuck yes."

"I have beer or scotch."

"Whatever. You pick."

They both stumble to their feet, avoiding eye contact for the moment. Peter heaves a sigh, rubbing his sore throat to ease the stinging memory, as Roman fishes two dark bottles out of the fridge. The beer turns out to be some sort of Russian stout. The taste is thick and coffee-like.

"You couldn't just get a lager like anyone else?" Peter says. The joke is light and biteless. Roman smirks, acknowledging the banter as an olive branch.

"I'm a Godfrey. I'm not anyone else."

Peter tries to smile in return, but the sentence feels heavy and full of meaning. As the two young men sit on the sleek modernity of Roman's couch, Peter finds himself asking: "What happened?"

"When?" Roman responds flatly. It's not really a question, though—his eyes dart to the floor. He knows when.

"In Hemlock Grove. After… after Letha died. After I left. What happened to you?"

Roman draws in a shaky breath and it looks like the act of remembering causes an almost physical pain. "You don't really want to know, Peter. Trust me… I…"

"I do," Peter corrects. "I want to know. Tell me."

Roman meets his eyes now. The silver light from earlier has faded back to his normal eye shade of blue-grey. His gaze is questioning, searching. "I can't take it back once I tell you."

"I know," Peter agrees. "I just…" He hesitates, trying to put it into words. "…When I saw your photo in that magazine, you looked so cold. Like you were shutting everything out. It reminded me a bit of the expressions I'd seen on your mother's face and I—"

"I'm _nothing_ like her!" The exclamation is harsh, almost violent. But there's fear there too—like Roman had yelled this truth as much to convince himself as to convince Peter. "Nothing!"

Peter stares at Roman, his eyes searching. "What happened?" he asks again.

A short half-sob and half-laugh bubbles hysterically from Roman's lips. "Everything. Shelley was gone. Letha was gone. You were gone. My whole world had just shattered—all at once. I think that's what she'd been waiting for, you know? She had me right there—in her manicured little clutches. Fucking bitch. There… there was a baby."

Peter frowns now. "What? What baby? Not… not Le—"

"No!" Roman shakes his head. "I—I don't know. Some fucking random baby. I mean, it couldn't have been hers. Her baby died, right? That's what they said. That's what the doctors said. So, this was someone else's baby. It had to be. It's the only thing that makes sense, right?"

"Sure…" Peter shakes his head, confused. "Where was the baby? And what was the baby doing there?"

"In the attic." Roman says this in almost a sing-song voice and the result sends chills down Peter's spine. Roman's expression darkens and he takes a long gulp of beer, steading himself. "She wanted me to eat it."

Peter startles. "What?"

"Yep." Roman toasts his beer to an imaginary figure in front of him. "Great mother-son bonding time, right? Infanticide. Someone should make a fucking Groupon."

"Roman… what… what did you do?"

Roman is silent for a long while, his gaze fixed on nothing. Finally he whispers, "I killed her. Olivia. My mother." Peter's breath catches in his throat as Roman's jaw trembles. "I… I just couldn't do what she wanted me to do. She wanted me to be something and, Peter, I just…"

Peter moves before he even realizes it. He gathers Roman back into his arms, pulls him close. Then Roman is clinging to his shirt again, tears soaking into his chest. The room is silent except for Roman's shaky breathing and the soft murmurs of Peter offering soothing words in Romanian as he threads his fingers through Roman's blond hair. The words may be foreign to Roman, but the comfort of the tone seems to help somewhat.

"Is that when you changed?" Peter asks now in a hushed tone.

"Well… I died. Kind of. It's hard to explain. That was the first step. I think killing her got me another part of the way. But it was…" Roman shutters and tries to pull away, the memory seeming to physically repel him.

"What?" Peter holds on tighter, refusing to let Roman go. "Roman, what happened that finished the change?"

"I think… I needed to drink human blood. Not like mine or my mother's. A normal fucking human. That seemed to be it. The final step."

Roman's tone is flat and impassive, but Peter can hear the pain and fear hidden beneath. "So… how did you get your first human blood?"

"Don't ask me that, Peter."

"But…"

"Don't fucking ask me that. I can't… you'll never look at me the same way again. I don't think I could fucking bear it. Just… just don't…"

"Roman." Peter makes his voice as firm and confident as he can. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to be there for you then. But I'm here now. And clearly this is something you need to talk about. It's hurting you. When I was growing up, Nicolae used to tell me that painful emotions were like mold on a piece of fruit. You need to get it out or else it infects everything else that who have that is still good." Peter moves his hand from Roman's hair, down his neck, pausing to rest on his shoulder—not a soothing hand now, but a supporting one. "I promise, since I'm asking, that I won't judge. I can tell you regret whatever it is. I'm prepared."

A hysteric clap of laughter rushes through Roman's lips and his mouth morphs into a bitter smile. "You're prepared? Shit, Peter, I don't think you could be. But fine—you want to know? How did I get my first human blood? I didn't. I wasn't even thinking about it. I just stayed in the house. I considered killing myself. And then I realized that maybe I wouldn't need to be so proactive about it—I felt awful. Like I was starving. Like my cells were trying to eat each other. It hurt. I can't even describe how painful it was. And there were these voices in my head and they kept getting louder and louder." Roman's voice turns flatter now, and Peter recognizes this tone change as Roman's way of trying to deal with the memory's agony. "It was just us in the house now. No one was coming by. No housekeepers. No gardeners. My uncle was grieving and wouldn't leave his house. So it was just me… and the dead body… and the baby."

Peter draws a breath in sharply in realization. "Oh, Roman…"

"I don't even remember doing it!" Roman's voice shatters, a sob breaking through again. "I think if I remembered that at least it would seem less terrifying. But it was all hunger and voices. And then… the thing was just dead. Its little body was just… I killed my mother to avoid doing that! And then I did it anyway." Roman leans his forehead against his hand holding the beer bottle, the dark glass obscuring Roman's face from Peter's view. The only hint that Peter has of his expression is the tear which escapes down Roman's cheek, dripping down onto his expensive slacks. "Some hero I turned out to be, right? Matricide and infanticide, all in the same week. You probably think I'm a monster—that she was right about me. About who I am."

"No." Peter's voice is heavy and honest. He pulls Roman's hand away from his face so that he can look him in the eye, Peter's hands enveloping Roman's tightly. "I think you're brave, Roman. When I started shifting, I had Nicolae to show me the way. I had my mom and Destiny to teach me what's right, how to handle the shift and the wolf. And I still made mistakes. You were dealing with something no one had prepared you for, and you were dealing with it alone. You knew who you wanted to be—and we both know your mother would have crushed that. You did the best you could. She set it up so you wouldn't have a choice."

Roman winces, sniffles, and nods. "I'm doing well now, you know. I used a bunch of books I found in my mom's collection to separate fact from fiction, figure out how I could survive without hurting anyone. I haven't killed anyone, Peter. I promise—not since that night. I'm trying. I really want to be good—at least to not be evil, you know? But the voices and the hunger. God, it's so hard. I just don't…"

Roman's hands are woven with Peter's now, fingers gripping palms and wrists. Peter leans in closer, resting his head against Roman's collarbone. "I told you. You're brave. Just by trying to be a good person. I don't hate you, Roman. I promise—I don't." Peter nuzzles against the side of Roman's neck like a puppy. Roman half-chuckles, the sound releasing the final wave of emotion from his story. "I'm sorry. I wasn't there. I didn't know how to be there for you—but you're right. You needed someone. I should have—"

"I didn't need _someone_: I needed you," Roman corrects. The words are said with such quiet surety that it causes Peter to sigh, nodding.

"Like I said. I'm here now."

As if to prove his point, Peter leans forward and presses his forehead to Roman's. The gesture turns into a second nuzzle, the wolf still growling warnings in the back of his mind. The kiss that follows is unplanned but it feels natural. It starts chaste, then grows in intensity. Roman moans into his mouth, intertwining their breaths. For Peter, then, reality shatters—for a moment, the whole world is nothing but mouth and skin and tongue. For a moment, the wolf is completely lost.

…

**To be continued… **


	5. Chapter 5 - Conjoined

**Author's Note**: We have officially reached the chapter that necessitates the M rating. Turn back now if you want your imagination to remain innocent (though I have no idea why you would…). Not much plot development in this chapter, but hopefully this will still add something wonderful to your day. _~ Tsuki_

**…**

*I do not own _Hemlock Grove_. All characters are the property of Brian McGreevy, Eli Roth, and Netflix. No infringement intended; just a bit of fun!*

**…**

**Chrysalis - A Hemlock Grove Story**

**…**

**Chapter Five: Conjoined**

Peter's tongue hesitantly slips into Roman's mouth. A moan follows, and Roman isn't entirely sure which one of them the sound came from. He tangles his hand in Peter's wavy hair, his fingers twisting in the curls, pulling Peter's face closer against his. His whole body is electric, wanting. Somewhere, a few inches above his stomach, the hunger that he lives with daily blossoms, blooms, and seems to send out tendrils. Roman can almost feel it—the hunger—reaching out, wanting Peter. Wanting to feed, to taste, to consume. To pull everything away from the werewolf. To drain him dry.

Roman gasps, pushing Peter away forcefully. Within a blink, Roman is on the other side of the room. Peter looks around, momentarily confused at the swiftness of the motion and the new emptiness of his arms. When his eyes finally settle on Roman, the gypsy's eyes are dazed and questioning.

"Peter… stay right there. Stay away from me." Roman's voice cracks slightly.

"Why?" Peter frowns. He stands up and starts to take a step forward, toward Roman.

"Just stay there! Jesus, I don't…" Roman takes a deep, shaky breath. The hunger is still throbbing in his guts.

"Roman, what is it? It seemed like you were okay. With the kiss, I mean." The expression on Peter's face is that of a confused and rejected puppy. It's so sweet that it practically makes Roman's teeth hurt.

"Okay? Shit, Peter, I've wanted to kiss you like _forever_," Roman half-chuckles. The tone of his words sound bitter to his own ears, and he can't imagine how they sound to Peter.

The Romani's frown deepens, his brow furrowing. "Then… what's the problem?"

Roman feels a harsh chuckle escape his lips. "Peter, you need to understand something about me. I don't want to manipulate you, and I don't want to hurt you."

"Okay," Peter agrees warily. "That's good."

"But I'm not sure I can help myself. I don't control it—" Roman swallows, his mouth dry. He's never talked about this with anyone before. Well, anyone other than Shelly. She had caught him in a contemplative mood one day when he was a high school sophomore. The senior captain of the cheerleading team had practically thrown herself at him during study hall, and that was only a day or two after the daughter of a family friend who they had been visiting made some rather forward propositions, her voice hot and wanting in his ear. In many ways, it was a teenager's ultimate wish: to be sought after, to be desired. But it was confusing too. It was Shelly who first suggested that the cause might be something supernatural. "Like my light," her computer generated voice had chirped. She had theories: maybe they were faeries. Maybe the world was changing and they were a new species. Maybe a magic spirit was watching out for them. Roman had smiled and felt comforted and loved. Shelly had always been his anchor, the one person who truly cared for him and who he could talk to about anything. Now, though… Shelly is gone. And Roman's not sure he knows how to talk about this with anyone else.

"Roman?"

Peter's voice breaks through his thoughts. He shakes his head. "I don't mean to manipulate people, Peter. I don't. It just happens. It's like pheromones or something. I've heard that some insects are like that—they put out a chemical which triggers a social response or a 'calling' to a potential mate. It causes arousal and desire. I think I might do that—trigger something in people. Like the fact that I can force people to do things for me. It also makes them want to have sex. It's been this way since I was an adolescent. I don't _try_ to make people want me—I've never had to. It just happens. I read in one of my mother's books that we" he gestures at his chest, not wanting to say the word 'vampire' out loud, "feed on people's energy too, not just blood. I think it's like an evolutionary thing. That's how we catch our prey: we make people want to fuck us. And it doesn't usually bother me, Peter. Heck, it makes my life a lot easier! But…" Roman's words catch in his throat and he has to lower his eyes. He doesn't want to see Peter's face right now. "…I really like you, Peter. You're _different_. I don't want to make you do something you don't want to."

Peter is silent for a moment. "Is that it?"

Roman frowns and looks up again. "What?"

Peter shrugs, his expression calm and flippant. "I already knew that about Upir. Destiny used to tell me stories. That's actually how I figured out what you were to begin with. Given that I'd only been attracted to girls when I first met you, it didn't take me long to figure out that you were like a walking Viagra. Which made me think: that guy's probably Upir. You were interesting and I wanted to get to know you. Think about it, though, Roman. The entire time we were in Hemlock Grove, we spent a lot of time together in private, small spaces. And we never once kissed. Sure, you make people want you, but unless you willingly force them with your eye-hypnotism-thing, you don't _make_ them do anything. You also didn't make me come find you in New York. I wanted to do that, knowing who and what you are, remember? So, you're not manipulating me. I made a choice."

Roman's head is reeling slightly. The hunger is battling something in his stomach that feels suspiciously like… hope? It is a strange sensation—one Roman hadn't felt in ages.

"I still don't want to hurt you," Roman murmurs, his voice strained with hesitance. "I drain energy, and lately I've mostly had sex only with people I've fed on. If I lose control…"

"Then I can handle myself," Peter calmly explains. "First of all, I doubt you drain much energy. There were a bunch of girls at Hemlock Grove—who I have absolutely no doubt you slept with—and they were all walking around just fine afterwards. And secondly, I really doubt that you'll want to drink my blood. According to Destiny's stories, I'm pretty sure Upir don't like lycanthrope blood. It tastes bad, or smells bad, or both. And lastly, I trust you Roman, but if you do something that I don't want you to, and you don't listen when I say 'stop,' then I have a mean right cross. I used to box with a friend of Nicolae's when I was a kid."

Peter grins, his white teeth flashing as if to insist the comment is half-meant as a joke, even though it clearly isn't. The knowledge actually makes Roman feel a bit better, the pain in his stomach slightly subsiding. Peter is a werewolf. Roman had seen him hold his own in a fight. Maybe… just maybe…

Peter continues, his cheeks flushed with half-sheepishness. "I just wanted to let you know that I know what I'm dealing with and I'm okay with this, Roman. But I don't want to seem like I'm pressuring you. If you don't want to do this, I completely underst—"

Peter's sentence is cut off as Roman pushes himself across the room and locks his mouth onto Peter's once again.

.

.

The sensation hits Peter like a brick wall of arousal. The difference between Roman on the other side of the room and Roman pressed against him is shocking. He wasn't lying—he knows the choice he's making and doesn't feel coerced by Roman's almost tingling amount of 'sex god' energy. But now that Roman's mouth is on his again, his whole body feels hot and aching. His head is swimming and he feels like he'd agree to almost anything just to as long as Roman would keep kissing him, keep touching him.

'Destiny would freak,' Peter thinks. He's pretty sure that those stories were told to him to understand the wolf's natural enemy, to keep him safe. And here he is, letting an Upir shove his tongue into his mouth, letting him slip his hands up under Peter's shirt and rake fingers down his back. No—not letting 'an Upir.' Letting Roman.

Peter lets out a noise that sounds a lot like a wolf's growl and pulls Roman closer, hands fisting his expensive shirt and smooth blond hair. Roman gives as good as he gets, tongue licking, mouth gasping, one hand rounding Peter's ass. Finally, Roman pulls back, panting. Peter notices that the Upir's eyes are tinged silver again, dangerous and other-worldly.

Peter barely has time to process that silver light as Roman leans close and whispers in his ear, "Let me suck you. I'll make you feel so good…"

Peter's mouth is dry as he nods slowly. Roman had only half waited for an answer anyway, already unbuckling Peter's jeans with thin, deft fingers. The apartment air is cool on Peter's skin as Roman slides down his jeans, taking a moment to grope Peter's ass again through his thin cotton underwear. Peter momentarily curses himself, wishing he'd worn something more interesting and sexy than old white boxer-briefs, but Roman doesn't seem to care in the slightest, slipping those down to Peter's ankles too, his mouth creating a trail of light sucks and kisses down Peter's thigh, a light bite to the inside of his knee.

Another silver-lit flash of an upward glance is all the warning Peter gets before Roman runs his tongue swiftly along the length of him and then engulfs him whole.

Peter has received a handful of blowjobs in his life. A teenage niece of a friend of Nicolae's, a girl he had gotten drunk with in the art room of his old high school before Hemlock Grove, and of course Letha. But, as Peter muffles a yell with the back of his hand, he can safely say that none of them had felt like this. Roman has clearly done this before; he drinks him in deep, his throat open and accepting, his mouth wet. Then Roman starts doing something inconceivable with his tongue, and Peter is almost embarrassed by the sounds he makes in reply.

It feels like time is lost. There's just the feel and sound of Roman's mouth and Peter's panting breaths. Then Peter hears the sound of a zipper, looks down to see Roman touching himself, his cock glistening with pre-cum while his red lips are still wrapped around Peter. The sight is the most erotic thing that Peter has ever seen, and ultimately more than he can stand.

"Oh god, Roman, I'm…" Peter tries to pull away, but Roman's free hand clamps down firmly on his hip, refusing to allow a retreat. And then Peter is coming, the feeling hot, white and pulsing. Peter can feel Roman swallowing with big greedy gulps. It causes Peter to whimper like a puppy, his legs trembling and nearly giving out beneath him.

When Roman pulls back, his lips raw and red, Peter half-collapses to the floor, pulling Roman to him. Peter can taste himself, musky and salty, in Roman's kiss.

Peter doesn't quite know what to do next—has never even considered how to give a blow job to another guy before. Uncertain in his skill, he falls back on what he knows he can do well. He reaches down, his calloused hand wrapping around Roman's and the Upir's erection. Roman gasps into his mouth as he pumps, their hands working together—pulling, tightening, firm. The speed increases slightly and soon Roman shutters against him, hot cum spilling over both of their hands.

"Shit," Roman half-chuckles.

"Yeah," Peter breathes in response, his mouth an exhausted grin.

"I should get a towel."

"Uh, yeah, that'd be helpful."

The air feels colder as Roman pulls away. Peter feels dizzy, worn out. Roman's face has a newly healthy flush, however, and looks more like his former self from Hemlock Grove. 'He looks more alive,' Peter realizes. He wonders if Roman had fed on his energy during sex, then grasps that he must have and that—from what Roman said—he probably couldn't even help it.

Peter closes his eyes for a moment, then starts as he realizes that Roman is shaking his shoulder. "You don't want to fall asleep here, especially with cum all over your hand, Rumancek." Roman's voice is teasing and warm. Peter nods, only half-awake, as he towels off his hand. He lets himself be led to the bathroom to wash off and tries not to think about what it means that Roman keeps an entire pack of new, spare toothbrushes in his cabinet. They undress, Roman practically pulling him to bed. Peter feels himself drifting, is almost asleep when his head hits Roman's pillow.

"Get some sleep. You need a recharge," Roman whispers against his ear. Peter feels his friend pressed against his back, one arm crossed possessively across his chest. Peter presses back against Roman in response, snuggling closer. He hears Roman sigh in his ear.

"Peter…?" Roman whispers. Peter murmurs a response, though not a fully coherent one. The bedroom is silent for a moment before Roman finally says, "I'm glad you found me."

Peter nods, a silent agreement, the wolf calm and sated inside him, and then falls into sleep.

…

**To be continued… **


End file.
